


where the day meets the night (that's where you'll find me)

by ThirtySixSaveFiles



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 13:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/pseuds/ThirtySixSaveFiles
Summary: Three deaths in as many months. True death is difficult to visit upon the fae; but someone is doing deadly work at the Sunlit Court.As the Sunlit Prince, Goro is tasked with catching the killer. He neither needs nor wants help from anyone from the Moonlit Court; but help has come to him, in the form of one Akira Kurusu. It's Goro's responsibility to keep him close - he is an Unseelie, after all, and everyone who knows anything knows that the Unseelie are not to be trusted. To do so is perilously close to treason, and Goro is a dutiful son.But Akira makes the even the treasonous sound reasonable, and duty may be a higher calling than Goro ever expected.





	where the day meets the night (that's where you'll find me)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [ssealdog](http://ssealdog.tumblr.com) and [fleurdeliser](http://fleurdeliser.tumblr.com) for the beta work!

The emissary from the Moonlit Court is not as Goro expected.

His manners are perfect; he bows to the Sunlit Throne with the exact degree of correctness between insolence and impropriety. His eyes are the gray of a brewing storm, of trouble on the horizon, and they pause on Goro’s before slipping back to the King’s. His coat rustles as he straightens; the interior appears to be lined with feathers that shift and sigh against one another even in the still air of the throne room. His dark clothing is out of place here in the Court of Sunlight, his crimson gloves a bloodied streak against the whites and golds and summer tones of the gathered Seelie; but the high collar of his shirt is the same color as his eyes and it...becomes him, a pleasing contrast to the paleness of his skin.

He’s very beautiful. Suited to shadows and moonlight, Goro thinks before he can stop himself.

“To what do we owe this pleasure,” the King says, with a flat inflection that makes it clear it is no pleasure at all. He stands tall and bright on the Sun Dais, the throne a golden monument behind him.

If the emissary takes insult he doesn’t show it. “The Moonlit Court has heard rumors, Your Highness. Unrest in the Seelie Court; unrest that has been laid at the door of the Unseelie. The Moonlit King wishes no war between our kingdoms, and so I am here to find the root of the matter, to unearth the true cause of these disturbances.”

“My son has already been tasked with finding the Unseelie intruders.” Goro meets the emissary’s eyes as they slide back over to his, bright and interested.

“Then I offer my assistance,” the emissary says without missing a beat. “The sooner the killer is caught, the better for everyone, surely.”

A rumble moves through the court at the word _killer_ , and Goro keeps his face neutral.

The King makes a disgruntled noise next to him. “Fine.” Goro frowns, turning to protest, but Shido waves him off before he can even open his mouth. “We accept your assistance. But when the Unseelie intruders are caught,” the King says, leaning forward. “They will be dealt with _here_ , in my Court. There will be no slipping back to the Moonlit Court to escape justice.”

The emissary tilts his head the barest fraction, and Goro can see shadows moving behind his eyes.

The Unseelie emissary bows again, hair falling into his face. “Of course, Your Highness,” he murmurs, and there’s something in his voice, some hidden edge that Goro almost misses. When he straightens again he’s looking at Goro expectantly.

Goro smiles, folding the memory of the emissary’s tone and tucking it away. They’re not at war - not yet - but everyone knows the Unseelie can’t be trusted. _Killer_ was bad enough; best to get this Unseelie away from Court before he upsets it further. Goro goes to step forward, and as he does the King’s hand catches his arm, pulling him close.

“I consider you responsible for him,” Shido says quietly, and Goro nods. He’d expected no less. “Keep him close,” the King continues. “But under no circumstances believe anything he tells you.”

Goro nods again, straightening. He descends the Sun dais, ignoring the whispers that ripple out as he comes face to face with the emissary of the Moonlit Court.

“What shall I call you?” he says. The forms of politeness must be observed.

The emissary looks as if he’s considering his answer. “Akira,” he says finally. “Akira will be fine.”

“Akira.” It has a pleasing ring to it. “Welcome to the Sunlit Court. Come with me.”

* * *

“Your timing is very good,” Goro remarks as the doors to the Sun Court close behind them. “It’s been not two days since the last...discovery.”

“The last body, you mean.” Akira’s coat rustles. He adjusts his cuffs and it quiets under his hands.

“Hmm.” Goro gestures and Akira falls in step beside him. He seems to draw the light in toward him, a shadow brought to life amidst the warmth of the Sunlit Court. “That’s not public knowledge. I wonder how you came to hear it.”

“Isn’t it?” Akira slants him a sidelong look, but the smug look in his eyes says he already knows. “Does the Sunlit King keep his secrets so close, then?”

“As close as necessary to avoid panic. I will thank you to do the same.” It may be too much to hope for but perhaps Akira can be reasonable.

Akira falls mercifully silent until their arrival at a small drawing room abutting the sunward gardens. Like most of the rooms at the Sunlit Court, it boasts high windows and higher ceilings, to let the sunlight in and suffuse the room with warmth. Unlike most of the rooms at Court, the decorative window dressings have been drawn tightly closed.

Unlike most of the rooms at the Sunlit Court, this room has a guard.

Goro nods, and the guard salutes and steps aside, eyeing Akira with blatant misgiving. Goro puts his hand on the doorknob and pushes, cracking the door open -

There’s a jingle of arms behind him and Goro turns to see the guard’s pike lowered in front of Akira’s chest and Akira paused midstep, hands out at his sides.

“No one but you is to enter the room, Highness,” the guard says quickly before anyone can speak. “King’s order’s.”

“I am well aware of the King’s orders,” Goro says. “He’s with me.”

“But he’s -” the guard trails off and Akira’s lips twitch upward.

“Handsome? Impeccably dressed?” His smile slides into something a little sharper. “Or did you mean Unseelie? Pick any of the above, they’re all true.”

“Stop it,” Goro says. Looking after an Unseelie is going to be bad enough, let alone one that thinks he’s _funny_. “He’s with me. I’ll take responsibility,” he says when it looks like the guard might protest again. “King’s orders.”

The guard doesn’t look like she likes it but Goro isn’t concerned with what she does or doesn’t like; what he _is_ concerned with is that she lowers the pike and steps away, allowing Akira to pass.

“Charming reception,” Akira murmurs as the door swings shut behind him. “This must be the famed hospitality of the Sunlit Court.”

“Did you really expect to be _welcomed_?” Goro folds his arms. “Three deaths in as many months; that may be normal where you come from but we’re a little more _civilized_ here.”

“I can tell,” Akira says dryly, clasping his hands behind his back and looking around. His nostrils flare as if he’s scenting the air. “This is where one of the bodies was found, I take it?”

“The most recent,” Goro confirms as Akira starts to circle the room. “A servant, discovered in the early hours before most were awake.”

“Hm.” Akira pauses near the sofa. He crouches, skimming his hand over the marble floor. “What did you do with the body?”

“Burned it. On -”

“Let me guess,” Akira interrupts, looking back over his shoulder. “The King’s orders.” Goro smiles, not entirely happily.

Akira raises his eyebrows. “So no chance of recovery.”

“None whatsoever,” Goro says flatly. “The body was...drained.”

“Of blood?”

“Of _life_. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Goro admits, moving over to stand beside Akira. “I’ve seen warriors recover from lost limbs and crushed organs, given enough time. The captain of the Kingsguard will even show you the scar where his neck was severed. Maybe not you,” he says as Akira looks up. “But it is a point of pride for him nonetheless.”

“But this,” Goro continues, gazing at the place where Akira’s hand rests on the floor. “There was no spark left at all. Even the stone floors have some current of life running through it; a memory of when it was part of the living veins of the earth. This had...nothing.”

Akira hums, looking back down at the floor.

“Tell me,” Goro says pleasantly. “How did you know to stop at the very place in this room the body was found?”

“I can hear it.” Akira stands, wiping his gloved hand on his trousers. “The silence. Can’t you?”

Goro can, if he concentrates. There’s a thread of music, of light, of _life_ that runs through the Sunlit court, through every living thing and through the walls, the furniture, through the air itself that sings of sunlight and of warmth. It’s the first memory Goro has, of someone singing this melody to him; he’s learned to not hear it, but if he pays attention it’s always there, lilting in the background.

Mentioning it to his father had earned him a flat stare and a brusque instruction to not bother him with fancies, so Goro hadn’t, beyond that first time. There’s a silence here, though; a...a _hole_ in the fabric of the Court, a missed beat in the song of the sun. Goro had thought he’d been imagining it, the product of too little progress stretching out over too many months.

“Three in as many months, you said,” Akira says, turning to face him. “True deaths, the bodies burned and gone. How is the court _not_ in an uproar?”

Goro presses his lips together briefly. “The individuals so far have been...insignificant. According to the King,” he adds when Akira’s brows draw down. “Servants. Porters. The court carries on without them.”

“According to the King,” Akira says evenly, and there’s a depth of acid hidden there that takes Goro by surprise. Akira steps up close, coat rustling as it brushes against the legs of Goro’s trousers. “And according to you, my Prince?”

“I am not _your_ Prince, Unseelie,” Goro says softly. “I will answer your questions about the investigation. I will not help you undermine the Sunlit Throne.”

A brief smile flashes across Akira’s face, as if he’d heard more in Goro’s reply than was intended. He clasps his hands behind himself again and steps back, sketching a brief bow.

“Then by all means,” he says. “Tell me more about the investigation.”

There’s not much more to tell: three bodies in three months, a refrain that beats in the back of Goro’s brain, awake or asleep. No witnesses. No sounds of disturbance, at least not until the body is found. Nothing to link them together, except that they are, as Shido had indelicately put it, easily replaced.

Goro remembers clearly the way the first victim’s partner had screamed, had had to be dragged from the room. True death is not easily visited upon the fae, and it has been centuries since the last war. Loss of this kind is a shock not easily overcome.

“What makes your King so sure an Unseelie is responsible?” Akira asks over a bottle of wine in the Prince’s antechambers. The quarters across the hall are being prepared for the Unseelie emissary, but until then they’ve retired to Goro’s quarters, and after the jab about _hospitality_ Goro had felt obligated to open up his cabinets.

Shido had instructed Goro to keep Akira close, and that is what Goro intends to do.

Goro takes a sip from his own glass and considers his answer. “What makes you think it isn’t?”

“The Moonlit King would know.” Akira sounds very confident in this. “He would know if someone had crossed over into Sunlit territory.”

“And you believe your King implicitly?” Goro regrets the question as soon as it’s out of his mouth, but Akira merely looks at him, eyes thoughtful and measuring over the rim of his wine glass.

“I do,” Akira says simply. “But I’m beginning to get the impression that you _don’t_ , my Prince. You don’t have to say anything,” he says, laughing even as Goro fights to keep his face smooth and unbothered. “Sunlit politics are not my concern. I’m here to clear the Unseelie name, not to upset the balance of things.”

“I’ve known you for all of an afternoon,” Goro says with the aid of the wine. “And yet I think that you upset things just by being _you_ , regardless of your intention.”

Akira shrugs and grins, raising his glass. “Here’s to the first honest thing you’ve said all evening.”

Goro laughs despite himself, and _clinks_ his glass gently against Akira’s. The wine is crisp and heady, and it’s the only excuse he has for what he says next. “If I’m being honest, when we received word of an Unseelie visitor I expected more -” he shrugs, unsure how to finish that sentence without being outright insulting.

Akira raises a brow. “More what - horns? Claws? Wings that brush the walls?” Goro winces, but Akira’s smiling. “You’ve never visited the Moonlit Court, have you?”

“Of course not,” Goro says stiffly, and Akira’s smile goes a touch wistful.

“Of course not,” he repeats, and there’s something strange about his voice that Goro can’t quite place. “And why would you? Why would anyone want to leave the Court of Sunlight?” He drains what’s left in his glass and reaches for the bottle.

A knock sounds at the door. At Goro’s affirmation it swings open, revealing a servant in gold and white livery. “The...guest’s chambers are ready, Your Highness. As you’ve requested.” He shoots a nervous glance at Akira, who is studiously refilling his glass.

“Thank you. You may go.” The servant nods and escapes, door falling shut behind him. Akira empties the last of the wine into his glass and sets the bottle back down. It _thumps_ on the table and Goro feels faintly like apologizing. He squashes it easily enough; he owes Akira nothing beyond what politeness and hospitality require.

“I think I’ll take this with me,” Akira says, taking his glass and standing. His face is neutral, pleasant, but shadows move behind his eyes.

“Of course. Let me show you the way,” Goro says, moving to stand as well.

“I believe I can find my way across the hall,” Akira says dryly, but Goro accompanies him to the door nonetheless. 

“Goodnight, my Prince,” Akira says he passes. Goro grits his teeth but says nothing, standing in his own entryway, watching until the opposite door swings shut behind Akira. Only then does he carefully close his own door, turning and making his way deeper into his apartments.

 _As you’ve requested_. If everything was indeed prepared as he’d specified, now would be a good time to test it.

Goro picks up a small hand mirror from his dresser and brings it close to his mouth, exhaling. His breath clouds the glass, and when he holds the glass up to his face he sees only a white, gently rolling fog. He settles in an armchair and passes his hand over the glass, and as he does the fog roils and clears abruptly.

Instead of his own face reflected he sees the interior of the apartment opposite his own. His vantage is somewhat limited, anchored to a decorative mirror on the wall as it is, but it’s broad enough to see Akira prowling the perimeter of the room, fingers skimming over the furniture, head cocked as if listening to something only he can hear. The wine has been set aside on a low table, and Akira’s long coat with it; his arms are left bare, muscles clearly defined. He doesn’t have the soft, well-fed look Goro is accustomed to seeing from diplomats, and Goro wonders, not for the first time, what the Moonlit Court has sent.

Akira looks up suddenly, head turning toward the mirror - and then he grins, straightening out of the crouch where he’d been investigating underneath the bed. He makes an unwavering line toward the mirror, eyes appearing to be locked on Goro’s, as if he knows, as if he can _see_ him -

“I said _goodnight_ , my Prince.” Akira’s is tinny through the mirror, but he’s smiling as he passes one red-gloved hand in front of Goro’s view, over the glass.

Goro’s mirror abruptly goes black.

Goro blinks.

He passes his own hand over the glass again - nothing. He taps the glass. Still nothing. He frowns, turning the mirror over as if the answer is written on the back, and when he rights it again it reflects only his face, scowling and with the faintest hint of red across his cheeks.

He sets the mirror carefully aside and drums his fingers on the arm of the chair.

He supposes, grudgingly, that he should have expected no less from someone the Moonlit King would send as an emissary. Still. That had been a careful, passive bit of glamour; Akira shouldn’t have even been able to detect it, let alone _disable_ it. The Moonlit Court trains its diplomats well, it seems.

Less well in the art of subtlety - Goro’s fingers curl against his palm as _I’m beginning to get the impression that you_ don’t _, my Prince_ echoes in his ears. It’s treason even to think it, let alone to suffer it to be heard without contradiction; and yet he had let it pass, as if disagreement with the Sunlit King wasn’t grounds for expulsion from the Court itself.

A weighty accusation for someone who’s known Goro for less than a day. For an _Unseelie._

Goro will have to be more careful, in the days to come.

But it’s late now, the sun low in the sky, casting Goro’s bedchamber in hues of orange and amber. Tomorrow will bring its own set of problems; Goro has no doubt that most of them will come courtesy of a sharp grin and a too-quick tongue, one that calls him _my Prince_ with none of the respect he deserves, one that speaks too easily the sentiments Goro barely lets himself think. Best to put it out of his mind, for now, and face tomorrow as it comes.

And if he falls asleep thinking of gray eyes that sparkle in the sunlight it’s no one’s affair but his own.

* * *

Goro rejects three outfits the next morning before settling on essentially the same thing he wears every day at court: whites and golds and a touch of red, just enough to make him stand out. The sun is well into its ascent by the time he tugs his white gloves firmly into place and Goro checks its position as he settles the ceremonial - but still sharp - blade around his waist. It’s later than he’d intended; hopefully Akira hasn’t gotten far unattended.

But when he steps into the hall the breakfast tray is still sitting in front of the opposite door, untouched; it’s possible Akira had ignored it, of course, but if he hasn’t ventured out yet perhaps this is an opportunity to catch him unawares. The door is locked, of course, but it’s the work of half a moment and a small gesture to unlock it. Goro pushes it wide and strides in. Perhaps he’ll catch Akira halfway dressed or looking anything less than composed; maybe this will set him off-balance, the way he’s been doing to Goro since he arrived.

There’s no Unseelie emissary with his shirt halfway over his head, however, no startled gaze raised to meet his own; the room is dim, dimmer than Goro’s own, and Goro’s gaze is drawn to where the coverlet from the bed has been hung haphazardly over the gauzy curtains, dampening the morning light.

There’s a stirring from the center of the bed, and Akira’s head lifts from the pillows, eyes squinted even against the muted light. It must be the dimness playing tricks on Goro’s light-adjusted vision, but Akira’s eyes almost seem to glow a deep crimson for a moment; the red of his gloves, of a deep sunset, of blood.

Then Akira blinks and he’s pushing himself up and over, leaning back on his hands as the sheets fall down around his waist. Goro’s eyes track town the - really quite _toned_ muscles of his chest and stomach before snapping back up to Akira’s face. His eyes contain no trace of red but they _are_ lit well with a sleepy amusement as he brings a hand up to cover a yawn.

“Is there something I can do for you, my Prince?” He lowers his hand and blinks again, and his features are - soft, somehow, under a mop of hair even unrulier than last night.

Goro can feel the silence stretching out too long. “You can get dressed and join me,” he says finally when Akira raises an eyebrow. “The morning’s half-gone already.” Belatedly he realizes he should have objected to _my Prince_ , but Akira’s already covering another yawn.

“My apologies,” Akira says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Sleep was...elusive. I forgot that the sun never really sets here.”

Goro pauses. “You forgot?” he asks mildly.

Akira smiles gently. “Just because _you’ve_ never visited your sister court doesn’t mean none of us have,” he says.

“Ah.” Of course. “I can - I can see about finding some darker curtains,” Goro offers because apparently he’s left his wits in the hall behind him.

Akira leans forward, seemingly uncaring that his chest is all on display. “And what would you demand in return, my Prince?” He’s definitely more awake now, grin sharp even in the dim light.

“That you stop calling me that,” Goro says, but there’s less bite in it than he intends.

“Shall I come up with something else, then?” Akira goes to pull back the sheets, sliding toward the edge of the bed. His legs are bare as he goes to stand and discretion suddenly seems very much the better part of valor.

“Get dressed,” Goro snaps, turning and pulling the door closed behind him. Akira’s chuckle follows him out into the hallway.

Irritating as he can be it’s actually - not terrible, working with Akira. Certainly not as bad as Goro had feared. They spend the second day and the next inspecting the scenes where the first two bodies were found and interviewing everyone Goro has already talked to; it’s tedious work but it’s necessary if Akira’s going to be of any use, and Goro has to admit - grudgingly, and only to himself - that Akira picks up information quickly and thoughtfully. He’s polite, even gentle with the members of the court who appear unduly unsettled by the presence of an Unseelie in their midst, although he doesn’t hesitate to answer blatant discourtesy with the sharp side of his tongue. Goro lets him be. Shido's favor is obvious in the Court of the Sun, and many members of the court have enjoyed a certain...latitude, under the benevolence of the King.

Akira is a living current in a Court that has been stultifying for too long. Goro would be lying if he said he didn’t find it...refreshing.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t ultimately responsible for Akira’s actions, of course, so he takes care not to let things get _too_ out of hand. There’s opportunity here for the Prince of the Sun Court to build favor by keeping a firm hand on the unruly Unseelie. But to be seen keeping Akira under control, he has to let Akira get a little...out of control, at first. He can’t take credit for work that is invisible, after all.

So he lets Akira say what he will and then rests a hand on his shoulder, raising the other to placate a minor noble whose feathers have been ruffled. Akira slants him a sidelong look, one corner of his mouth pulled up like he knows _exactly_ what Goro’s doing, but he doesn’t object to the smooth platitudes Goro lays down, and he doesn’t shrug Goro’s hand off, either.

His shoulder is warm under Goro’s hand, even through layers of cloth and leather. He must radiate heat. Goro’s hand feels cold when he finally pulls it away, and he flexes his fingers to dispel the sensation.

As...unobjectionable as Akira’s presence is turning out to be, however, he doesn’t appear to be able to push the investigation any farther than Goro has. The days turn into a week, which turns into two, into three, and still Goro feels as frustratingly distant from the truth of the matter as he ever has. The answer is here, somewhere in the Sunlit Court, he knows it. He just has to figure out how to make the pieces _fit_. 

The matter is heavy on his mind even when, perhaps, it shouldn’t be; the noise and glitter of the Sunlit Court in full revelry is somehow less compelling than it usually is, with Akira seated at his right. The feast is ostensibly to honor their Unseelie guest, although Shido has barely spoken to Akira, choosing instead to regale the court with tales of his own doings. The King is resplendent, gleaming with his own power, and Goro averts his eyes with the ease of long practice, turning his gaze to survey the room. He’s heard all of these stories before; they don’t interest him any longer.

Beside him he can feel Akira stiffen and he glances over. The Moonlit emissary appears to have the same relaxed, faintly amused air he’d brought with him to the Sunlit Court, but perhaps the days of close proximity or just his vantage point have granted Goro a special insight. The faint line of tension running through Akira’s shoulders and the slant to his mouth tells Goro that despite appearances, Akira doesn’t like what he is hearing.

Goro makes an effort to listen. “...been missing for nigh on six months,” the King is saying. “Tricked out of the sunlight by deceitful Unseelie.”

Ah. Goro is familiar with this story, above even all the rest. It’s the story the King tells about Goro’s mother.

“I retrieved her myself, of course,” the King continues. Goro watches out of the corner of his eye as Akira carefully sets his silverware down. “It was my duty as King; I could not ask another to go when one of our own had already been so easily ensnared.”

“And the Moonlit King?” A noble of minor standing asks, perhaps hoping to gain some standing by prompting for the next part of the story. It’s one Shido is fond of telling.

The King laughs. “The Moonlit King? As weak as his namesake. He could no more stand before me than the stars before the daylight.”

“And the woman?” The court quiets as Akira speaks. He reaches for his goblet, raising his brows as he lifts the cup to his lips. “What of her?”

The King presses his lips together. “Died in childbirth. Undoubtedly an affliction brought on by time spent in the Moonlit Court.”

“Ah. To her memory, then. Undoubtedly she is missed.” Akira raises his glass and takes a sip. “That King, however, is not. The Crown has passed, Your Highness,” he says into the hush. “The Moonlit Court is not as you once knew.”

“I know it well enough,” the King snaps, and then visibly smooths his expression. “Any king weak enough to lose the throne doesn’t deserve to hold it.”

Akira smiles down into his wine. “I spoke not of thrones, Your Highness,” he says, setting his goblet down. “But in this we agree.”

Goro eyes Akira carefully but he apparently has no interest in continuing the conversation, cutting into his food, indifferent to the murmurs rising around him. The King is clearly _not_ pleased with Akira’s answer, mouth pulling down into a flat line, but when Akira lifts the next bite to his mouth the King turns away. Goro sips his own wine and considers his words carefully.

“I would speak with you before you retire this evening,” he says to Akira. That should be innocuous enough.

“I am at your disposal, of course.” Akira’s eyes sparkle as he slants a sidelong look at Goro. “Am I in trouble?”

“You _are_ trouble.” The words slip out before Goro can stop them and Akira laughs. Goro glances at the King, but Shido appears to be absorbed in conversation with the noble on his left. Best that he not hear Goro be too... _familiar_ with an Unseelie, especially one who would challenge him in court, however obliquely.

Shido might not have heard it but to Goro the meaning of Akira’s words is plain: the emissary from the Moonlit Court thinks the Sunlit King is weak. Goro can’t think of anything further from the truth; Shido has held the Sunlit Throne for centuries, since before Goro was born. The King blazes with power, practically glowing from within. If anything, he grows stronger with age. To imagine him weak in any fashion is absurd. Laughable.

But while Akira’s tone had been light and deferential, it had held an edge sharp enough to slice sunlight, and Goro holds the memory carefully as he draws abreast of Akira in the dimly lit halls, after they’ve made their excuses. The revelry continues without them; Shido will hold court for hours yet, well into the dim part of the sun-cycle, but Goro doesn’t have the patience for endless hours at Shido’s side anymore. It appears that Akira doesn’t either.

Akira gives him a sidelong glance. “Going to give me a scolding, my Prince?”

“If I thought it would stick, I might,” Goro replies mildly. “If you were a member of this court, your words would veer dangerously close to treason.”

Akira grins. “Then it’s a good thing I am not a member of this court, is it not?”

“Not now, perhaps,” Goro says, and Akira stops walking. Goro turns to face him. “But I think that you were, once.”

There’s no trace of mirth now on Akira’s face. “And what makes you think so?”

“You’ve been here before, but I know every member of this court down to the servants and I have no memory of you. The Unseelie haven’t been welcome here in ages.” Goro steps up close and Akira’s coat rustles, the lining shifting of its own volition. Akira doesn’t move, watching Goro with eyes gone dark even in the hazy golden light. “Which means that either the Unseelie really _have_ infiltrated the Sunlit Court, which you insist to be impossible - or that you were once one of us.”

Shadows move behind Akira’s eyes and his lips press together - and then they pull up in a reluctant smile, shoulders relaxing minutely in a way that only calls attention to the tension there as it dissipates.

“So the Prince is more than just a pretty face,” he murmurs, and when Goro lets the deliberate provocation slip by without comment Akira laughs. “I’m afraid that is a story for another day, however; unless there is something else?”

“There is,” Goro says, stepping back. “But it is better discussed in private.”

Akira raises his brows but he falls in step as Goro leads them away from the public areas, back towards his quarters. It should feel odd, perhaps, to so routinely let Akira in to his private rooms; but it hardly feels like an invasion anymore, not after so many days spent together joined hip to shoulder. Akira settles into the chair he’s come to favor and folds his hands as Goro moves restlessly from the door where the locks are doubly sealed to the small table where he strips off his gloves to the cabinet where the wine is stored -

“You said there was something else,” Akira says, interrupting Goro’s scan of the cabinet’s contents. “Something best discussed _in private_.” When Goro turns to look Akira is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, red-gloved hands clasped together and a smirk that leaves no doubt as to his meaning.

For a moment Goro is tempted to take him up on it; even an affair with an Unseelie would be less complicated than the road he’s contemplating.

“Yes” he says instead, closing the cabinet. “When you spoke of the mantle passing between kings, you said that you did not speak of thrones. What, then, was your meaning?”

When he looks up again Akira’s brows are raised high, but his face is serious. “Now who veers toward treason, my Prince,” he murmurs, leaning back. “Has the King never spoken to you of the Crown?”

Goro frowns. “Of course he has,” he snaps. “He has several, as do I.”

“Not crowns,” Akira says patiently, and this time Goro can hear the difference in inflection. “ _The_ Crown.”

Goro pauses, and when Akira smiles this time it’s less pleasant. “The Sunlit King _does_ keep his secrets close, then,” Akira says, and gestures toward the seat opposite his. “If I’m going to cross the King’s will in telling you this, you might as well sit.”

“How much do you know of the Moonlit Court?” Akira asks as Goro settles.

“Very little, apparently,” Goro says. He’s loathe to admit ignorance in any circumstance but if Akira is feeling expansive, Goro will encourage it.

Akira drums his fingers on the arm of his chair, as if he’s weighing how much to say. “There is but one fundamental tenet of the Moonlit Court,” he says finally. “Which is: all are welcome, if they wish to belong. I have heard the story the King shared tonight, although the Moonlit Court tells it differently. The story the Court of the Moon tells is of the transition of power, from one King to another, of the favor of the Crown.”

“You speak as if the Crown is a living thing,” Goro says carefully.

“So the story goes,” Akira replies. “The Crown and the Court are as one, and if one breaks faith with either then one loses the power of both. That’s what happened to the last Moonlit King, and why we have a new one now.”

 

Goro remains silent, turning this over, and Akira moves his hand across the table so his gloved fingers just brush Goro’s.

“I find it - surprising, that the Prince of the Sunlit Court does not know this truth,” he says softly. “Surprising...and unsettling.”

Goro flexes his hand. “I will not help you sow sedition,” he says, although the words lack the bite he intends.

“So you keep saying.” Akira extends his reach, leaning over and capturing Goro’s fingers with his own. Goro’s fingers flex involuntarily in the grip of the warm leather as Akira lifts Goro’s hand to his mouth.

“Consider, my Prince, that it might be the other way around,” Akira murmurs against Goro’s skin, and it’s treason to hear him say it, to even _think_ it - but with Akira’s eyes rolling up to meet his, dark as the starlit sky Goro’s never seen, the only betrayal Goro feels is the twinge in his chest when he pulls his hand away.

“Think on it,” Akira says quietly, leaning back with a smile that says that no matter what Goro says next, Akira knows that he will.

* * *

Goro does.

He tries not to. The Sunlit King has reigned for a thousand years and will reign for thousands more; it’s foolish to think otherwise. But Goro does, as he’s sitting across from the King in a private dinner, as Akira shadows him in the halls and the gardens of the Sunlit Court. Goro thinks about the the holes in the melody of the sun, about how his father the King had somehow never thought to mention the mechanism by which the mantle of King was passed. That it _could_ be passed.

He thinks about the story of his mother, and he wonders exactly _how_ they tell it in the Moonlit Court.

Before he can decide if he wants to ask, another body is found.

It’s the same as all the others; body left in a side chamber of a little-used wing of the palace. The sunlight streaming in through the windows makes the drawn rictus on the body before him even more grotesque, and as Goro kneels to examine the remains he can hear it: the dropped note in the song of the sun, the _nothingness_ that is the antithesis of everything the court stands for.

Akira kneels one the other side of the body. “I am sorry,” he says softly, and as Goro draws in a careful breath he realizes that the stirring in his gut is _anger_.

“May I?” Akira says, and Goro nods, sitting back on his heels.

Akira’s dark coat pools around him as he leans forward. His hands are delicate, respectful as he traces over the gauntly drawn face, the sunken-in chest. Akira’s nostrils flare as his hand pauses over the ribcage, and Goro wonders what he can possibly see that Goro doesn’t. After a long moment Akira sits back, wiping his gloved hand on his trousers as if there’s a residue he doesn’t want to take with him.

“No Unseelie did this,” he says, glancing over Goro’s shoulder at the guards waiting to take the body away. His voice is low, pitched to carry no farther than Goro himself.

“How can you _possibly_ know that,” Goro hisses, trying to contain the clawing thing inside him that says there’s nothing here, there’s nothing here, there’s _nothing_ -

Akira makes an abortive movement, as if he were going to reach out but changed his mind. “You’ve spent time with me,” he says simply. “Is there a trace of anything like me in this room?”

Goro draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose. “I don’t know _what_ -”

“Listen,” Akira says softly. “I know you can hear it.”

Goro closes his eyes, because to look at Akira any longer is to acknowledge what he already knows.

There’s a hole here, yes, a discordant note in the melody that runs through the court - but it’s not coming from Akira. Akira is a low thrum, unlike anything in the Sunlit Court but complementary nonetheless. Part of a different song, one that Goro might like to hear someday - but not the strangled gasp of emptiness in the body before him.

There’s nothing like Akira in this room; only the sharp and burning smell of sunshine.

The roiling anger stays with him, though, curdling in his gut. He holds it tightly as the body is taken away, keeps it tamped down as he interviews the servant who made the discovery, but it _burns_ in his stomach even as he makes sure his face shows nothing but sympathetic concern.

“Have the next of kin been notified?” he asks after he’s established that the servant saw nothing - of course she didn’t, no one ever sees _anything_.

The guards exchange a glance.

Goro sighs. “I’ll do it.”

Akira trails after him as he stalks through the halls. Rumors has already spread its wings, apparently; the courtiers they pass have their heads bent together, eyes heavy over Goro’s shoulder. It’s not hard to guess their target, and Goro slows.

Akira beats him to it. “Perhaps this is something you need to do yourself,” he says diplomatically. His smile is dimmed, and although his shoulders remain straight the corners of his eyes are tight.

“Thank you,” Goro murmurs. “I’ll meet you back at your rooms?”

“Of course. I would ask that you pass along my condolences, if I didn’t think it would bring a mob to my door.”

Goro can’t help the snort that escapes him. “I very much think that might be the case.” His voice softens. “But I do appreciate the sentiment.”

Akira makes another one of those abortive movements, which is strange from someone so controlled - but he turns it into a briefly sketched bow, and takes the next turn, heading back toward the rooms that have been assigned to him. Goro watches him go, and half-wishes that he could go with him.

Then he squares his shoulders, and continues on.

Breaking the news never gets easier. The next of kin never believe it, not at first; but the disbelief is easier to bear than the mounting horror, the sick grief, the tears. It’s his duty as the Prince to offer comfort and he does, with promises of answers and of vengeance. The rage - banked for now, but still burning - carries him through it, and although he’s careful that his hands and his face are gentle he can hear the fire in his words, that lends weight to promises that might otherwise sound hollow after so many months with so little progress.

He still feels drained by the time he departs, and the sun has started its descent by the time he heads back toward Akira’s quarters. Although it would have been impolitic to have him along Goro finds that he misses Akira’s silent support. They’ve worked well together, these last weeks.

Pity it hasn’t been _enough_. That thought is all it takes to spark the frustration in his chest again as he rounds the familiar corner. The door to the guest quarters across from his is ajar, and his feet slow as he hears Akira’s voice drift out into the hallway.

“It’s no Unseelie. I’m sure of that now,” he’s saying, and Goro wonders to whom he could be speaking. It’s not as if Akira has made friends in the Sunlit Court.

“Then you’ll come home?” A woman answers him, but it’s no voice Goro recognizes. The sounds echoes as if passing through a long tunnel, and Goro pauses. A glamour strong enough to pass directly to the Moonlit Court is no small magic, and it’s more ability than Akira has displayed during the whole of his time here.

The ability that he has _displayed_ , of course, is not the same as the ability he _possesses_. The anger in Goro’s chest stirs; he should have known better than to take an Unseelie at face value.

Akira doesn’t answer, and the woman’s voice softens. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know if the Prince wants to hear it,” Akira says softly, and the spark of rage in Goro’s chest becomes an inferno.

His feet move forward of their own volition, and he shoves the door wide, slamming it against the inside wall.

“Tell the Prince what?” he says, sharp enough to carve glass.

Akira jumps, turning away from the mirror on the wall. Goro sees a woman’s face in the glass over his shoulder - brown hair and red eyes and no one he knows - before it blanks, reflecting only Akira’s back and Goro standing in the door.

Goro steps further in to the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Tell me what, Akira?” The rage feels like knives in his lungs; every breath hurts and so he concentrates on the way Akira doesn’t quite look at him, eyeing him sidelong through his bangs as he adjusts his gloves.

“You didn’t ask, so I wasn’t sure you wanted to know,” he says quietly. “How the story is told in the Moonlight Court. Your mother’s story.”

Goro inhales sharply through his nose. “I never told you she was my mother.”

“You didn’t have to.” Akira pauses. “You look very much like her, you know.”

Goro’s breath stops short. “You - you knew her?”

Akira smiles, but not altogether happily. “Briefly. I was - very young, and newly come to the Moonlit Court. As was she. She was -” Akira looks away. “She was kind to me in a time when very few were.”

“You make it sound like she _wanted_ to be there,” Goro spits.

Akira looks back. “I already told you: the only requirement to find the Moonlit Court is the desire to belong. She couldn’t have found it if she didn’t want to,” he says quietly.

“You label my King a liar,” Goro says coldly, even as the bottom drops out of his stomach. 

“I do,” Akira says flatly. “And worse. She didn’t want to go,” he snaps when Goro opens his mouth. “She didn’t _want_ to return here, even heavy with child as she was, but your _King_ demanded it.”

Akira pauses, and when he continues his eyes are as dark as Goro’s ever seen them.

“I tried to stop it,” Akira says quietly. “I swear to you, I tried - but I was young and unpracticed and I couldn’t save her.”

It hits Goro somewhere deep in his stomach; he knows how this story ends, he’s always known, but it still hurts, a dull ache he’s never quite grown used to. Akira takes one long stride forward, then another, closing the distance between them. Akira’s coat rustles, swaying toward Goro as Akira takes one of Goro’s hands in his.

“I couldn’t save her,” Akira says, low and intent. “But I would offer you her place.”

“What -” Goro jerks back but Akira’s fingers tighten around his.

“The Sunlit King keeps secrets from his son and dismisses the deaths of those who follow him; and this is only what I’ve witnessed firsthand. You could be free of all of that. Come back with me,” Akira says in a rush. “There is a place for you at the Moonlit Court if you want it.”

Goro draws in a breath and lets it out slowly. He squeezes Akira’s fingers, holding on tightly for one beat, then another - 

Then he steps back, drawing his hand away and folding it behind his back.

“So what you are telling me,” he says calmly, or as calmly as he can manage. “Is that this place you call home, the place for which you wish me to abandon the Sunlit Court, gave up my mother when she did not wish to go?”

Akira hesitates, hands flexing, and the shadows move behind his eyes. “We have a new King now,” he offers eventually.

“And _how_ ,” Goro says, tamping down on the scream that threatens to escape. “Can I trust that he is any better?”

Akira pauses again, for so long that Goro thinks he might not answer at all -

He doesn’t get the chance. The door crashes open behind Goro; the jingle of arms sounds and when he turns Goro finds himself face to face with a pair of armed guards. More line the hallway behind them, tense and unsmiling.

“Your Highness.” The guard on the left bows, although he doesn’t take his hand off the hilt of his sword. “Your presence is required at the Sunlit Throne.”

Goro swallows past the tightness in his throat. “Tell the King I will be there shortly.”

The guard clears his throat. “Both of you, Your Highness. Immediately.”

Akira leans in close. “Incredible timing, is it not?” he murmurs, before stepping around Goro and flashing a sharp smile at the guard. “Lead the way.”

* * *

The Sun Court parts silently around Goro and Akira as they enter bracketed by a phalanx of guards. Eyes slide away from Goro’s as they advance toward the Sun Throne, as if to look too closely will be to attract dangerous attention. Shido stands bright and burning atop the Sun Dais, almost too brilliant to look at.

The King is wearing his sword - ceremonial but sharp, just like Goro’s - and the unease in Goro’s gut twists up into his chest.

The little procession comes to a stop a few meters before the foot of the dais. Goro steps forward, but the King speaks before he can open his mouth. “Akira Kurusu of the Moonlit Court.” The King’s voice echoes, bouncing off the high arches and colonnades of the court room in a display of power the likes of which Goro hasn’t seen in years. “The Sun Court charges you with murder.” 

Goro stops short.

He turns. Akira’s expression is smooth and neutral, with only the faintest arch to his brows indicating any kind of upset. He looks -

He looks like he _expected_ this, and Goro is tired, so tired, of being the last to know.

Goro turns back toward the Sun Throne. “On what grounds?”

Shido scowls, and the smell of sunshine grows stronger.

“Condemned by his own mouth,” the King snaps. “In your own presence, he expressed remorse over the death of one of our own.”

“An expression of sympathy, not of guilt,” Goro counters. To argue with the King is perilous, even for the Prince, but this isn’t right, Akira’s been with him the whole time -

The King’s face twists. “So he has compromised you as well.” He unsheathes his sword and descends the dais. The smell of burning sunshine fills the room. “He is an Unseelie. They are treacherous. That is the end of it.”

Two guards seize Akira’s arms and force him to his knees. He looks on calmly as Shido approaches - but Goro can see the lines of tension in his shoulders, and when Akira’s eyes shift Goro realizes that he hadn’t been watching the King.

Akira had been watching _him_.

Goro inhales deeply and overheated air fills his lungs; he can practically _taste_ the power radiating off of Shido, and Akira’s voice echoes in his head: _is there a trace of anything like me in this room?_

There hadn’t been. Only the irradiated smell of sunlight, the same that sits heavily in his lungs and metallic on his tongue.

This isn’t just. This isn’t _right_.

Shido draws near and his steps slow, his face arrested mid sneer. The entire room seems drenched in honey and light; every beat of Goro’s heart is coming slowly and the song of the Sun is so loud he can barely think through it, discordant notes jangling in his ears as the seconds slow and stop -

And then Goro hears it, so clearly he wonders how he ever missed it.

 _You know what he has done_ , the Crown says. _You know how he has hurt us._

Goro knows.

 _If you have the will to stand against him,_ the Crown whispers _, we will give you the strength._

The hilt of Goro’s sword seems to leap into his hand as he steps forward. The _clang_ when he crosses it with Shido’s reverberates up his arm, and this close Goro can feel the heat radiating off him, the burning sear of stolen souls threatening to scorch Goro where he stands.

“This is _treason_ ,” Shido spits, his eyes stretched too-wide and this mouth contorted in a snarl. “ _Move_.”

“The only treason here is yours,” Goro replies, heavy with certainty. “No.”

Shido _screams_ with rage but it’s a distant, secondary thing to the sound of the Crown settling around Goro’s heart. His veins run flush with fire and it feels like he’s breathing sunlight; there’s the sound of _something_ happening behind him but he can’t turn to see because when Goro pushes back again Shido he _yields_ , stumbling back a step.

“All of this time,” Goro says, forcing Shido back another step, and then another. “All of this time you had me on a fool’s errand while you drained this Court dry.”

“This Court _serves me_ ,” Shido snarls.

“ _Wrong_ ,” Goro spits, and the Crown sings in his chest. “Little wonder you have lost its favor.”

Shido’s heel hits the bottom of the Sun Dais and he stumbles. Goro forces him back, up the stairs and before the Sun Throne. Shido’s arms are trembling with the effort to hold Goro off. Goro can feel the Crown aching for vengeance, but there’s something Goro needs to hear Shido say first.

“Tell me you remember their names,” he says. “Tell me their names, and I will consider exile instead of death.”

The Crown shrills a protest but although Shido’s face creases in anger, the seconds drag on in silence. The crowd behind Goro starts to murmur, and Goro feels sick anger - his own, and the Crown’s - flood his body.

“Tell me she wanted to come back,” he says, although he already knows the answer. “Tell me again about my mother.”

“She belonged to _me_ ,” Shido hisses, which is all the confirmation Goro needs to hear.

“Masayoshi Shido,” he says, and his voice echoes off the walls with no effort of his own. “We find you guilty of murder, of bringing true death to the Court of Sunlight.”

And then, quieter, “We will not miss you.”

Goro reaches out with his free hand and seizes Shido’s wrist. The stolen energy of lives cut short thrums under his fingers, and it takes only a moment of encouragement from the Crown to set that restless energy free. Shido’s skin heats up under his hand, light leaking out from his ears and eyes and the lines where his skin begins to split. Shido opens his mouth - perhaps to scream, perhaps to bargain; Goro doesn’t know and doesn’t care - and light pours out, roiling around them in purifying flame.

The heat singes Goro’s clothes but the Crown wraps him up and keeps him safe, even as Shido’s flesh crumbles away beneath his fingertips.

When it’s over, when the flames have burned themselves out and all that’s left of Shido is a black smear on the Sun Dais, Goro heaves out a breath into the ringing silence. The Sun Throne sits in front of him; this close, he can see the spiderwebbed fractures running through it. It barely looks like it will support his weight.

Shido always stood in front of it, had done so for decades. Now Goro knows why.

 _It is yours_ , the Crown urges. _We will not let you fall._

Goro takes one step, then another, and as he turns to sit he can feel the Throne solidifying underneath him, the Crown at work filling in the spaces that had been broken with song and sunlight. It holds firm underneath him, and as he rests his sword across his knees and looks out over the court he feels a circlet, heavy with the weight of promise, settle around his head. He reaches up; it’s warm to the touch, and feels simpler than the ornate things that Shido favored. Like most promises, however, Goro suspects this one will be both much simpler and much harder to keep.

The nobles of the court are watching him with careful, guarded eyes; then one woman at the front kneels, as does the man next to her, then it’s as if a wave rolls through the court as every noble assembled takes the knee before their new King - with a few notable exceptions.

Akira stands in the center of a ring of unconscious guards, casually adjusting his gloves. When Goro’s gaze stops on him, he flashes a grin, and sketches out a half-bow.

“Let me be the first to congratulate you on your ascendancy, Your Highness,” he says, and Goro finds that he half-misses _My Prince_ ; but this is certainly not the time nor place to call that out.

“Mmm.” Goro runs his gloved fingers over his blade and sighs. “I suppose you will have quite the story to take back to the Moonlit Court, to your King.”

Akira pauses for the barest fraction of a second but the Crown stirs in Goro’s chest and it’s enough, this time. Goro leans forward.

“Or perhaps,” he continues. “You will not need to go that far.”

Akira hesitates, and then he laughs, shaking his head, and as he does the glamour falls away.

 _Horns? Claws? Wings that brush the walls?_ The memory of Akira’s words rings through Goro’s head as Akira’s form shifts and resettles. He’s no larger than he was but his _presence_ suddenly rushes through the Court, the nearest nobles falling back. The wings that arch over Akira’s back are impressive indeed, feathers glossy and rustling, and his fingers seem a little sharper than they did a moment ago. His eyes are the dark red of old blood, and his teeth are sharp as he dips a formal bow. 

Goro recognizes him instantly, of course, King to King; or the Crown does, and he supposes there’s hardly a difference anymore.

He sighs in irritation. “You could not have revealed yourself earlier?”

“You looked like you had it handled.” Akira’s face sobers. “And - it looked like something you needed to do yourself.”

Goro cannot deny the truth of that.

“In any case,” Akira continues, folding his hands behind him as his wings shift and rustle. “The Moonlit Court looks forward to a long and prosperous relationship with the new Sunlit King.”

Goro looks out over the - over _his_ Court. Most of the faces he sees are studiously neutral - they’ve lived too long under Shido to be otherwise - but he catches traces of unease, of confusion, of hope. There’s work to do here, to mend what has been broken; but it is his to do, and he finds himself looking forward to it.

“Our realms have been too long kept apart,” he says to Akira. “We have work to do, you and I.”

* * *

_Later_

The emissary from the Sunlit Court is not as Akira expected.

It is not an _emissary_ , for one thing, so much as the Sunlit King himself. Akira can feel his arrival rippling through the realm - Goro has made no attempt to hide himself, and Akira feels a smile stretching across his face as he makes a gesture and tears a hole from his study to the front gates.

If Goro is resplendent in his own country he is a shining star here, bright and golden among the silvered halls of the Moonlight Court. He looks up at Akira’s arrival, a small involuntary-looking smile crossing his own lips.

“Flashy as always, I see,” he says, and Akira laughs.

“I should leave such an important guest waiting? If you’d like to loiter a bit I can go back,” he offers, and Goro presses his lips together in the way that he does when he’s trying not to laugh. He’s grown into the position, into _himself_ a bit; his eyes have a golden sheen to them that wasn’t apparent six months ago, and his teeth when he smiles have a razor-sharpness Akira knows all too well.

Akira catches Goro’s hand, lifting it to his lips, ignoring the murmurs that spread through the watching crowd. “Welcome, Your Highness,” he murmurs against Goro’s gloves. Goro’s fingers flex in his, then curve tightly around his own. Akira straightens as Goro pulls him close.

“You forgot something when you left,” Goro says, and Akira raises his brows.

“A personal delivery; I’m flattered.” Goro still hasn’t let go of his hand and Akira tries not to let that go to his head. “What did I leave behind?”

Goro hesitates, and Akira’s eyes drop to where his lips have parted. It’s wishful thinking on Akira’s part, surely; Goro had seemed somewhat interested while he was the Prince, but now that he is King surely Akira’s missed his chance.

He’s tried not to dwell on it, in the months they’ve been apart. Formal correspondence is a pale comparison to days spent together in pursuit of a common goal and evenings spent in easy companionship, but it’s what he’s had of Goro; and if that is _all_ he will ever have, it is yet better than nothing.

That doesn’t stop Akira’s traitorous heart from _hoping_ , or from skipping a beat when Goro licks his lips.

“This,” Goro says, and it takes Akira a moment to remember the question -

Then Goro leans in and presses their mouths together, and Akira stops trying to remember anything at all.

Goro’s lips are warm and perfect and everything Akira had imagined; he tastes of sunlight and of green, growing things, and Akira’s eyes drift shut as he leans into it, heedless of the rippling murmurs and scattered applause from the crowd that rings them.

When they break apart Akira uses his grip on Goro’s hand to keep him close, resting his forehead against Goro’s. He can feel the sides of his mouth pulling up; he feels like he might never _stop_ smiling, like something that’s been missing has slotted into place, like he never wants to let Goro go again.

“A grave oversight,” he says, low and warm. “Thank you for correcting it.”

“Anytime,” Goro says just as quietly. He squeezes Akira’s fingers and then straightens, and Akira does the same.

“Goro Akechi, the Sunlit King,” Akira says formally. The forms must be observed, even if they’re standing a little too close for propriety, even if they’ve just kissed in front of who knows how many bystanders. “Welcome to the Moonlit Court.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [ThirtySixSaveFiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr and [@36SaveFiles](https://twitter.com/36SaveFiles) on Twitter!


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